


The Price of Existence is Reality

by artdeficient



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Existential Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 15:47:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5339696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artdeficient/pseuds/artdeficient
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dan is what some might call a megalomaniac; He dreams of delusions of power and grandeur, believes the world around him is a controlled web of existence, an existence of which he is king. In other words, Dan’s got a superiority complex the size of the moon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Price of Existence is Reality

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was hugely inspired by moreorlester’s art and is nominated for the emotional wreck award and most memorable award in phanfic awards 2015 (if you'd like to vote i would love you!!!)
> 
> //

Dan sees through tainted eyes. Toxic eyelashes brush his cheeks every time he blinks, capturing endless snapshots to be preserved in his webbed kingdom of megalomania, of which he rules with a fine elegance. His smirk is worn like a crown, and Dan holds his chin high with the knowledge that he is a spider, and the world is his web. He’s not proud to call himself an egomaniac; a fact which contradicts itself but Dan’s mind is overpopulated and he doesn’t have the capacity to care whether things make sense. Because they don’t, more often than not. But delusions of fine jewels in the form of ideas and grand spires which tower over the most confident of people are what bruise his kingdom and linger behind Dan’s eyes, an insatiable need for power and grandiosity fuelling his every thought. In reality, he’s an 18 year old boy with a superiority complex. In his mind, though, he sits on a throne of palladium, head in his hands at the chaos surrounding him. Nothing prepared him for the price of existence, and so Dan warps his own reality until his mind is raging with thick, black storm clouds, tearing modesty into a million pieces and filling everything with an incessant white noise.

Dan is feared, and not in the way a school bully or criminal would be feared but rather, feared through cowardice, because Dan holds himself in a way which seems to make people shrink into themselves unconsciously, make them part for him as he walks through hallways as if he’s surrounded by some kind of aureole. And, he supposes, an aureole could easily be mistaken for a crown. They view him only with wonder, with curiosity and admiration and a slight apprehension because Dan changes far too often for them to get used to him, slipping out of the grasp of what could be called mediocrity before it has a chance to consume him. Normality has no place for him, just as he has no place for normality.

His dreams are filled to the brim with delusions of grandeur, weapons of fierce determination and a frenzy which never seems to stop. Sleeping does nothing for him but further enhances his ideals and wishes, magnifies his need for power, through bright, knowing eyes and soft silk, and Dan feels more and more like fucking royalty every time he opens his eyes to stark walls. He plays the world like a well considered game, eyes never leaving the screen, and he always wins.

If Dan doesn’t win, the game fizzles out with a whimper.

-

Dan’s always been good at getting his own way.

Even as a small child, his mother would find herself unable to resist doe brown eyes, giving him everything he ever asked for- excluding his wish for a full sized, real motorcycle when he was seven, a rejection to which he responded with a two-week long tantrum- and so he’s never really experienced a world in which he isn’t handed everything on a silver platter. He guesses that’s why school is so mundane for him; complete power is given to him through submissive teachers who do nothing to stop him and hesitant classmates, and it’s all a little bit boring, in his eyes. Dan has always wanted more. He craves for competition, for conflict, for fights and for someone to be on the same level as him for once, because nobody he’s come across so far has any potential to be even close. And so he finds himself wishing, whilst staring out of the window of his French classroom, eyes glued to the sky, that he can have it all.

He’s not sure if he means for his wish to be taken quite so seriously.

-

A new boy enters History the next morning, dark hair vivid against the dull grey of the classroom walls. He doesn’t speak when asked, simply snorts a little at Mr. Johnson before scanning for a place to sit, and Dan notices the mess of pent up energy behind blue eyes just before their gazes meet. The boy doesn’t look away, simply stares back with a reckless abandon and Dan’s smirk curls upwards for a long moment, testing. It isn’t until he raises a sculpted eyebrow that the boy seems to snap out of it, finding a seat beside the window two rows in front, and Dan feels sort of triumphant.

“We at least have to know your name, new boy.” Mr. Johnson sighs. Dan notes the fragile emptiness behind ageing eyes and looks away, fingers tapping.

“Phil.” New boy speaks up, defeated. His voice is almost broken, as if he’s unsuccessfully attempted to mend it with patches of tape and frayed string, and Dan doesn’t miss the way Phil tries to cover up his weakness with a cough. He cranes his neck to watch Phil from a better angle.

“Well, Phil, how much do you know about the Cold War? Care to enlighten us all with an interesting fact?”

Dan tunes out the sarcastic tone of Mr. Johnson’s voice and instead watches the newest mystery in front of him, studying pale skin, jet black hair, tapping fingers and exuberant blue eyes which seem to grasp onto particular students around the room, attention never straying as he calculates. For some reason the boy is interesting to watch, and Dan finds he can’t quite look away despite the voice in his mind telling him that he really should. So he doesn’t, just locks his gaze  and ignores the kaleidoscope of thoughts which burn the edges of his mind with warning. What’s bugging Dan more though is the tightening in his stomach as he observes Phil, because it’s a feeling he knows too well and would fight fucking demons to get rid of. It’s a feeling of uncertainty, of weariness which seems to tangle his lungs together and squeeze his heart, and he doesn’t like it.

Their gazes meet again as Phil finishes his sweeping glance of the class- more than half of whom are avoiding his eyes already- and alarm bells are ringing in Dan’s mind but he contradicts them with a knowing smirk. He’s becoming uncomfortable with the confrontation, because he’s never met someone who is so clueless of who he actually is and what he stands for, and yet he’s finding himself enjoying the moments before Phil is bound to find out and back off. Brown eyes bore into blue, charged, angry energy twisting together in a way which makes Dan’s smirk grow and Phil grimace, chewing on his bottom lip. It’s an invitation, though, which Phil seems to accept with a discreet nod and flashing eyes before turning away. And it no doubt leaves Dan thinking about spires again, and how Phil may be the first person to actually climb them unscathed.

Concoctions of butterflies coated in sugar-sweet dread and vines of strangled confidence tighten his chest, and he tells himself with a practiced ease that he’ll erase the threat soon enough. Part of him knows, though, that he’s having more than a little fun with the beginnings of competition, in the form of black hair and all too knowing eyes.

As long as Dan has the upper hand, nothing can go wrong.

Or at least, he tells himself so, despite the way Phil’s gaze deepens with knowledge as the class goes on.  Dan can tell he’s intelligent, but it’s something he finds difficult to deal with more than any other trait, and by the end of the lesson he’s come to the conclusion that Phil is his competition, that he’s no longer alone. The reality of the thought both terrifies and excites him.

-

“You’ve got those eyes, New Boy.” Dan remarks once class has ended and he’s managed to corner Phil at the end of the languages corridor, gaze studying Phil’s every move.

Phil raises an eyebrow, looking to either side of Dan’s leather-clad shoulders as if he’s immensely bored- a trick in which Dan has experienced only a few times, and his smirk widens. “What do you mean?”

He’s interested, though, head tilting a little as his gaze flickers back to Dan mock-tiredly.

“They’re walled. Gated. Yet I can see straight through the barriers, and you’re burning up quite impressively. Might want to sort that out.”

Phil falters, mouth hanging open a little a second before the predicted wall of ice guards his expression, and Dan wonders how he can be both freezing and burning at the same time. It’s intriguing, to say the least.

“You don’t look much different yourself, if I’m honest. A little riled up, aren’t you?” Phil responds, more than a little coldly. The predictability of his reply is almost laughable; it feels almost scripted, and Dan should be fine with putting the boy in his place but for some reason his gaze is making it increasingly hard to do so.  He lifts his chin, locks his jaw a little.

“What’s your name, honey?” He asks instead, sickly sweet. The tone makes Phil scowl, eyes narrowing.

Dan grins.

“Wouldn’t have taken you to be one to use pet names, Howell.” he responds, voice smooth.

The fact that he’s managed to work Dan out before Dan’s even learnt his full name makes his stomach twist into knots, and he’s suddenly short of breath.  _Shit_.

Phil watches Dan let out a breath, gaze cool.

“I use them with the appropriate subjects. Name? Or do I have to caress your cheek to get it out of you?”

Phil has this knowing look, like he’s well aware of his position, staring Dan down with unashamed vehemency. Dan’s starting to feel a little testy.

“Lester. Shame you had to ask. Seems a bit dull, doesn’t it?”

“I’m not one for cosplaying Sherlock Holmes, Lester.”

“You could look and act the part if you tried though.”

Dan straightens his shoulders as he watches the corners of Phil’s lips turn up, fingers curling inside his jacket. He’s not quite sure what’s going on. It’s interesting, if not a little unnerving.

Before he has a chance to reply the bell goes, signalling third period, and Phil’s looking over Dan’s shoulders again as if he’s willing him invisible. The smile still lingers on his lips, though, dusty pink and challenging. It’s enough to unearth the triumphant feeling Dan finds lingering in his chest, even if it’s beginning to make him choke a little.

“I think you know how it works around here.” Dan says, and Phil looks back to him once again, smile dancing silently.

“Do I?” he replies in a confronting tone, hoisting a thin black bag higher onto his shoulder. Dan guesses he has maybe 10 seconds left, possibly 20, before he  _is_  actually pushed out of the way.

“This is my territory, and competition is more than unwelcome.” Dan manages. It’s weak, flat and almost precarious but he’s finding his hands begin to shake with something unfamiliar. They’re shoved into his pockets, and Dan’s wearing his smirk royally even now but it’s beginning to crack like a broken fucking mirror and he thinks Phil can see it.

Phil sees it.

“We’ll see.”

-

Phil is nothing short of fascinating, a fact which becomes evidently clearer to see as the days pass and Dan isn’t doing anything to save his own status as king. Phil’s already gathered a rather prominent reputation within the school, and people are starting to realise that Dan doesn’t hold the throne quite as tightly as once imagined. They’re flocking to the source of light, unaware that it’s tinted and deceiving and fucking manipulative just like Dan, because Phil’s got this look about him that suggests innocence, even though Dan would never label him with something so inaccurate. Really, Dan finds that he’s struggling to care where Phil’s efforts take them, yet at the same time he’s fuming, and he doesn’t know which of the two emotions he should be clinging onto more.

Mostly because he himself is caught in the headlights, drowning in the bathing of radiance as quickly as it appears and he’s lost himself somehow over the past few days but blue eyes and an easy smile will hypnotise him into pretending otherwise. Phil wears leather jackets and black skinny jeans and clunky boots just like Dan, and Phil wears a fringe and dark eyes and just like Dan, he’s bursting at the seams with ink blotted thoughts. He holds himself perfectly; chin high, strong shoulders and a gaze which never misses a single movement. They’re too alike for Dan to be comfortable.

And when Dan closes his eyes Phil is everywhere, tearing his kingdom acridly and forming a purple bruise which clouds over every corner of Dan’s mind. He’s everywhere and Dan can see the skies of his kingdom blemishing with spots of intrigue, with the idea of competition, and it’s confusing him to the point where his thoughts are incoherent and that fucking iridescent blue is burning into every possible crevice.

It’s also making him considerably dizzy, so he sits for endless amounts of time with his head in his hands, thoughts battling a war he seems to never resolve. Phil’s the reason for the dents in his perfect grandiosity, and the idea that another boy could ruin his ideals both angers and drives him into deciding that he has made his only enemy; one which he is determined to keep tied to him at all times. He’s not ready to admit that he’s a coward. He doubts he ever will be.

And the stormclouds are rolling in under a facade of nonchalance, battering the orange skies he’s so used to with a delicate insistency.

In other words, Dan’s fucked.

-

Somehow, Phil gets his number.

 

_[13:02pm]: Unknown Number:_

Found out a lot about u today.

 

_[13:04pm]: Dan:_

who’s this?

 

_[13:04pm]: Unknown Number:_

Votre chéri <3

 

Dan rolls his eyes and saves the contact as ‘Phil’.

 

_[13:05pm]: Dan:_

how did u get my number asswipe :*

 

_[13:06pm]: Phil:_

Boring question, Howell. Do u want to know what i found out or not

 

_[13:08pm]: Dan:_

enlighten me. chances are it wont surprise me.

 

_[13:09pm]: Phil:_

Maybe not.

 

_[13:11pm]: Phil:_

You wear this school like a crown and everyones terrified of u and its hilarious in the way that no one can actually see how scared u are behind ur sovereignty. Just wanted to let u know i can see the way ur eyebrows dip and i can see straight through the uncertainty behind ur eyes and i wanted to let u know that im not against u. I may look like competition for the throne u seem to be fixated on but rly im just as fucking afraid of things as u are.

  
  


_[13:15pm]: Dan:_

slow down, sherlock holmes.

 

He sends it jokingly but inside he’s feeling the weight of too many words crush into his chest, the phrase ‘ _rly im just as fucking afraid of things as u are_ ’ curling daggers into his mind and making the classroom spin.

 

_[13:15pm]: Phil:_

You’re letting me down, chéri

 

_[13:16pm]: Dan:_

maybe im not as exciting as u thought i was

 

_[13:17pm]: Phil:_

I highly doubt it. Meet me @ the mont. square gardens. 4.30.

 

Dan huffs out a breath, because he’s never felt quite so intimidated in his life and he knows that he’s playing into Phil’s hands by going along with it but his mind won’t let him do otherwise.

 

_[13:17pm]: Dan:_

gardens?? u taking me out on a date lester?

 

_[13:18pm]: Phil:_

not yet ;)

 

It takes so much energy for Dan not to throw his phone out of the nearest window in indignation.

-

Phil’s standing by a rose bush, polychromatic petals surrounding him like confidence, and he’s staring at Dan from the moment he spots him. And Dan’s walking towards the boy with as much of his usual stride as he can muster, forcing himself to think of the one throne he has in his kingdom and how he can easily cut off the strands of silk leading to it if Phil tries to get too close. An afterthought tells him he’ll be trapped in his mind if he does that, but he brushes it off with a raised eyebrow and a curl of his lips. Concentrate.

Instead of saying hello Phil bows, extending an arm out to offer his hand in a mocking fashion, and Dan can’t help but allow a smile dance on his lips. He doesn’t accept the offer though, simply waits until Phil’s looking up from underneath his fringe in subtle confusion.

“Are you done yet?”

Phil straightens up, retracting his arm and letting a slow smile spread across his features. He doesn’t say anything, instead turning to venture further into the labyrinth of rose and peony bushes. Dan does nothing but follow.

They walk through migraines of flashing colour and fragility, Dan trailing on Phil’s footfalls in a way he hasn’t done since he was a child following his mother. The realisation hits him a moment later and his brows furrow, because Dan is Important and Dan is a fucking King and Dan shouldn’t be following on the trails of another 18 year old aeolist with raven hair but here he is, for a reason he doesn’t know. The vines around his chest tighten a little further, and a faint feeling seems to nip at the edges of his mind.

Phil stops beside a black iron bench overlooking a fountain, seemingly satisfied, before seating himself and pulling Dan down beside him. A long moment of silence follows. where Phil studies the white marble statue in front of them and Dan studies Phil, eyes narrowing slightly in apprehension. The fact that he’s feeling even slightly apprehensive scares Dan to death; it’s a feeling which screams weakness, ranks him below the other person, and he doesn’t wear it well.

“Why did you bring me here?” he murmurs after a while, as more of a statement. Phil drags his gaze to meet Dan’s, and the moment they meet he can tell Phil’s playing a game. It takes effort for him not to sigh.

“Because you’re royalty, and royalty don’t sit in the 24 hour McDonalds on Northwood Street with a Big Mac and fries. Is this not royal enough?” he says, eyes glinting devilishly as he gestures to their surroundings.

Dan slaps his arm, earning a muffled laugh. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I never said I was.”

“You implied it-”

“I was just telling it how it is.”

They sit in silence for a while, drinking in muted noise of leaves rustling and children calling from the playground in the distance, and it’s nice, until Dan decides to think.

“Why are you so interested in me?” He breaks the silence, watching Phil’s features closely, “ Because I’m struggling to understand why I’m still here.”

Phil sits back languidly, letting a casual mask of indifference cover his features, though Dan knows better than to take it seriously. “You’re like an enigma, I guess, in a way that I think I have you uncovered and then you do something unexpected and I’m back to square one again, you know?”

“No,” Dan raises an eyebrow in defence, feeling a little vulnerable, “I don’t. Elaborate?”

Phil smiles, soft and slow. “Let’s just say you’re not one of those people who live the same year 75 times and call it a life.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dan frowns, though he has more than a vague idea of where Phil’s taking the conversation, and part of him wishes he hadn’t asked.

“I’m interested in you because you’re worshipped for no reason other than the aura of confidence and eminence that surrounds you and shapes you into some kind of naturally ethereal figure when really, you’re just another lost boy. I’m interested in the fact that you can’t see the qualities which make you human. You’re too invested in the grand scale of things to realise that power has more than one source, and it’s endearing, but really fucking sad.”

The words hit him like a ton of bricks, crushing his chest and making it increasingly hard for him to breathe, and he’s grasping for coherency, for any sentence to string itself together in response. To Phil, he probably looks like a gaping fish, eyes wide and mouth opening and closing almost comically. To himself, he feels weak. Weak and inadequate and powerless and he really fucking hates Phil for doing this to him.

“What makes you think you have some sort of power over me?” he retorts, standing up in defiance. He’s not about to let his kingdom come crashing down with the force of a few jabs to his stomach.

Phil looks up at him calmly. “I don’t, Dan. I’m just elaborating on the truth-”

“Except it’s not the truth! You’re spitting out  _lies_ and you’re fucking mistaken if you think i’m gonna believe you. Just- back off, okay? Stop trying to humiliate me and keep to your own twisted ideas of truth because i’m not falling for it.”

Dan steps back further, eyes narrowing at the concentrated composure which never seems to waver from Phil’s expression. He feels more like a trapped animal than ever, and Phil’s cornering him, savouring the moment to strike him down.

And he’s stuck in a wave of ambedo, becoming overwhelmingly aware of every microscopic detail, from the sewn seams of his jacket sleeve to the way his heart is thumping heatedly in his chest and so it’s not all too surprisingly when it jolts suddenly as Phil stands up. He takes another few steps backwards, keeping his distance despite the voice in his mind screaming at him to just give in.

“I’m not trying to hurt you.”

The words are controlled, vacant, yet Dan picks up on the tiniest hint of hesitance, and something about it snaps him back into reality, slamming up his barriers.

Dan turns, disappearing into the clouds of flora before Phil has a chance to call him back. And he isn’t followed; part of him knows, despite the crawling that seems to have resided in his skin, that Phil will stay back.

For how long, though, he’s really not certain about.

-

The knowledge that Phil triggered him to flee from conflict haunts him for days, seeming to crawl underneath his skin and darken the corners of his mind with cowardice. He’s ashamed, because he never runs from conflict and he never lets competition get the better of him but here he is, and Phil’s still out there bathing in the fact that he can break Dan down with a few carefully selected words. His crown feels precarious on his head, no longer sitting confidently but rather wobbling with every step Dan takes, and he’s fucking terrified. And Dan’s always been the spider crouched in the middle of the web, controlling and watching with a glorified smirk as insects find themselves trapped on paper thin strands of silk. It’s not until now when he finds himself flipped, finds that suddenly the silk underneath his feet changes material to something he’s unfamiliar with, that he realises his own web has trapped him. He’s out of his depth, desperately struggling to escape but his kingdom is known to have no mercy, not even for its king.

Dan is lost, and he no longer feels like his mind is a place to be trusted. Because the imprint of carefully considered words are burning into his skies, falling like paper arrows into his kingdom, and he is as close to defeated as he ever will be.

-

Bass reverberates throughout the cramped space and vibrates in Dan’s chest, a slight haze of intoxication making everything more than a little unpleasant. For some reason confusion is unfurling like florescence in his stomach, a sickening uncertainty about what he’s even doing here in the first place overwhelming him for a long moment, and as he stares around at the masses of people he comes to the conclusion that he’d rather be anywhere but here. It’s fucking freezing, for a start, and the cold beer hanging from his left hand seems to sink into his skin, taunting him for reasons he doesn’t understand.

The house is dingy and filled with obnoxious teenagers, most of whom are barely 16, and the sight positively screws up his features in distaste. It’s the home of some relatively popular sixth former who Dan happens to quite like, a boy with a dark, curly mop of hair and a grin which seems to attract girls (and boys) like moths to a light. And looking around at the profusion of drunkenly suspended fairy lights and discarded beer cans he finds himself feeling sorry for the boy; the state in which the party has seemingly descended to is not one to be proud of.

After a few more moments of aimlessly hanging around Dan decides to go in search of an empty bedroom, hoping to lie down for a while and stare at the ceiling because his thoughts are driving him insane and it’s the only place he can switch off. Luckily only the first bedroom is occupied, and the sight he sees isn’t drastic enough for him to do anything more than wince.

The second bedroom holds more promise, despite the open window which turns the place into an ice box, and he moves to the bed, flopping down with no intentions other than to disappear into his thoughts. A flurry of monochrome spots invade his vision like discoloured yearning as he stares up at the blank expanse of white, eyes finding unseen and imaginary shapes in the darkness, and Dan wishes for complete and unadulterated silence. It never happens.

A second later. much to his displeasure, his haze is interrupted by the door opening, a slim figure standing in the doorway for a second before entering and closing it behind them. Dan doesn’t hide the exaggerated sigh that leaves his lips, moving to rest on his elbows.

“Why are you here?”

It’s cold, and unforgiving, and yet Phil’s smiling at him with some sort of amused arrogance, tilting his head.

“Because I want to be.”

“I don’t want you to be.” Dan retorts, aware of the same uncomfortable jolt he experienced the week before when Phil was backed up with petals of confidence and vitality. Now though, in contrast, he’s standing alone in the dark, and Dan’s feeling a lot more self-assured. Daylight always brings out the things nobody wants to perceive.

He shuffles upwards further, glaring when Phil’s gaze seems to linger over him for longer than necessary. Self consciousness has never suited Dan, but his white shirt and tight jeans seem to shrink even further as Phil studies him, and it’s making his mind ache. He still holds some of his initial grace, though, tilting his chin high and locking their gaze with a determination that seems to spur Phil on even further.

“This is all a game to you, isn’t it?” Phil considers, smile never wavering as he holds his ground on the other side of the room.

“As it is to you.”

And it holds so much truth Dan almost laughs, because Phil is too much like him for either of them to get along; all Dan sees is competition, and all Phil sees is a challenge. At the same time, however, they’re opposites, for the simple fact that Dan dreams of grandeur and power and control and fucking beauty in the form of importance, and Phil stands for the opposite.

Phil seems to contemplate the words for a long moment, almost challenging Dan to break the gaze they’ve upheld for far too long, and they’re both teetering on the edge of rationality and instinct.

Cold eats at Dan’s skin with shrill impatience and he finds a rippling annoyance in his chest, because he’s so close to giving in but the shred of egotism he holds over his head is stopping him from doing so. So he swallows his pride and forces out the only thing he can think of.

“Why are you still over there?”

Whatever strand of composure Phil is holding onto snaps and he’s crossing the room in seconds, pushing Dan down into the sheets and straddling him before he has time to react. He’s breathing empty whispers into Dan’s skin, teasing, and Dan is  _so_ sick of playing the game.

“Fuck you.” Dan whispers harshly before wrapping his arms around Phil’s neck, and they’re both breathing into each other’s lips like fucking life support. Phil grins and it’s bold, genuine, pressing kisses to Dan’s lips that remind him of innocence. It doesn’t help that his eyes betray him with hope.  Dan’s  _so fucked_.

It’s a mess of bitter skin and aching lips and false confidence and Dan thinks with a slight curiosity that if this had happened in any other circumstances at any other time he would be pushing Phil away with harsh fingers, wiping weakness off his lips with distaste. But somehow he can’t bring himself to stop, so he lets slender fingers thread through his hair, allows Phil’s smile to burn his skin with unashamed consent, ignoring blackened skies and ruins of a concaved web in favour of physical contact. It’s not okay; of course it isn’t, he’s battering his superiority to pieces and crushing his chances of having anything to hold over Phil, but he only finds himself squeezing his eyes shut and tightening his grip with defeat.

“Why are you so sad, chéri?” Phil whispers between drawn out kisses, moving his hands to cup Dan’s cheeks, and Dan doesn’t know exactly how to respond, because his heart has dropped into his stomach from the phrase and he feels a sort of vacancy in his chest where it should be. Part of the reason comes also from the fact the Phil already knows too much, already reads Dan’s features like markings on a page, and it makes him uneasy with how Phil can curl his fingers underneath the surface and unearth clandestine emotion.

“I don’t know.” He murmurs in lieu of a reply a moment later, not really in the mood to do anything but drown. The tone of the words- or the abstraction of them- makes Phil pull back, makes him stare down at Dan like he’s just proved the impossible, eyes searching for something he doesn’t seem to be able to find, and Dan can’t think of anything but how fucking  _tired_  he is from all this.

“Okay.” Phil says after a while, soft and non intruding. It’s both exactly what Dan does and doesn’t need, and it warrants more lengthened kisses where Dan thinks of nothing but the faint uplifting feeling that battles the emptiness that never seems to go away.

And he’s got this weird bubbling sensation in his chest which reminds him of laughter, except its hollow and blank and fucking starving him and he’s not sure if he can hold himself up much longer. It’s just as he’s giving in to the feeling that a thought breaks through the haze of indifference, one which drives him insane with the idea of vulnerability, and it’s harsh, in the style of reality.

He’s safe as long as Phil doesn’t care for him.

But Dan knows it’s going to be almost impossible to avoid such a thing, because Phil’s decided on him, he’s fucking decided on him and there’s nothing he can do to lessen the grip Phil holds. It’s a kind of grip so heavy, so sharp into the planes of his neck that he can’t breathe, and he’s so out of his depth; largely because somehow, over a few weeks, Dan has lost control of his sovereignty and handed his delusions of grandiosity to the dogs, instead of keeping them wrapped around his neck like he should’ve, and now Phil’s got in and he’s  _ruined Dan,_ _he’s fucking ruined him_ -

“You’re not okay.” Phil whispers into his neck, distracting him. And Dan shakes his head, indiscernibly. Waits for the fog to clear from his mind- it never does.

“And I was on top of the fucking world, too.”

The words hold enough weight for Phil to understand, whispered with equal measures of fragility and power.

-

The world’s a fucking mess and Dan’s orchestrating the notes of a catastrophic symphony, playing a piano piece of manipulation and deception and perfection with the knowledge that death exists even for him.

And really, it’s not that he’s particularly morbid; just terrified of the one thing he has no power over, the one weapon that can be used against him to permanently halt his dreams of control, of status, of being worshipped. Dan’s not fragile, and he’s not morbid, but death has the ability to spin the kind of web Dan couldn’t escape from if he tried, and he fucking hates it, he does, really.

It’s also that Dan can’t succeed with Phil around, because Phil clouds his mind with the kind of haze associated with insobriety, curling into every fissure like billows of smoke. It’s because Phil’s a distraction, a way of making Dan weak; Dan knows that if he lets his kingdom deteriorate any further it’ll be a depression of unimportance, of broken glass and cracked stone and Dan won’t be able to do anything except tell Phil he’s okay (he’s not), (it’s Phil’s fucking fault).

He’s not, he’s not fucking okay and blossoms of purple and blue erupting on his thighs like racemes in florescence will cry out that he’s not but no one ever fucking listens and Dan thinks if they did they’d just push him closer to the edge. He’s not okay and he knows no normal person has a perfectly sculpted kingdom in their mind to retreat to when their retinas burn but he sort of loves the ring to the label ‘megalomaniac’, finds a sickening joy in watching people crumble under his throne. It’s his way of validating himself, his way of contributing to society- some would call it nothing short of diabolical, but dan prefers the term ‘living’.

Because to live is to exist, and Dan is sure there’s no point in existing without having importance, Living, in Dan’s eyes, is to Be Important, or at least to join the battle from birth to gain a level of importance which defines a person as a being. And it’s what he’s being doing his entire life; fighting for the title of Importance, for the crown of undoubted supremacy which seems to fall out of his fucking grip every time he manages to get hold of it. Dan knows it’s not easy, he knows it takes inexplicable determination, knows picking thorns out of his flesh is the only way to accomplish eventual grandiosity but he feels like he’s being pulled too tight. Phil’s ripping him, tearing his ideals like insignificant strips of paper and there’s absolutely nothing he can do except cry out in vain.

It’s too much it’s too much too much and Dan feels like he’s going to combust under burning eyes which contradict his every move and he’s fucking burning up and defeat, defeat tastes offensive, like hot coals on his tongue.

-

_[02:45 am]: Dan:_

what if there’s a price to pay for existence like what are we supposed to give in return because it’s too late and i’m on the floor counting coins and i don’t see the fucking point anymore

 

_[02:47 am]: Phil:_

You don’t seem the type to pay the price.

 

_[02:49 am]: Dan:_

maybe i’m not. maybe that’s the point.

 

_[02:50 am]: Phil:_

Maybe.

 

_[03:27 am]: Dan:_

and im just so terrified of death and non existence and silence and i want to punch you in the face because it’s 3am and i’m still counting coins

 

_[04:01 am]: Phil:_

“Here’s the thing: I’m kind of fascinated by non-existence.

It’s just there’s so much going on in here - I mean, this head.

The concept of silence is too enormous.

I guess I think about the state of death like

I think about the state of space:

infinite, terrifying, heart-stoppingly peaceful.

I mean I don’t want to die

but I sure would appreciate the quiet.” -Elisabeth Hewer.

 

_[04:07 am]: Dan:_

maybe i don’t hate you

-MESSAGE DELETED-

-

They don’t talk at school, because they’ve both got reputations to uphold and it’s a good time for Dan to pretend he hates Phil, when they’re supposed to be against each other. Sometimes he almost convinces himself whilst watching Phil steal his throne that he does hate him, but then Phil sends him a text at 3am and he’s melting into the floor because it’s a fucking poem and Dan  _loves_  poems, and Phil’s cliché as fuck.

Phil will walk past him in the hallways with what seems like a simple glare to most people, but Dan can see the flimsiness of it even on the worst days.

And ‘ _rly im just as fucking afraid of things as u are_ ’  makes somewhat casual appearances in his mind on these days; the kind of casual where he muses that bashing his head into the nearest wall repeatedly sounds almost appealing.

-

(Phil texts him when they’re in history on a Friday and he’s looking over at Dan the whole time but Dan’s not looking back at him because he knows he’s already fallen into whatever they have and even he’s aware he’s not looking at picking himself up anytime soon).

The text says:  _come over tonight. i want to know u._

(Dan doesn’t reply). 

-

Phil’s house smells of air freshener and lavender and simplicity and Dan’s really fucking confused as to why that is. He reckons- it should be a mix of something completely different, something cold and distant and calculating and fuck, maybe, he just doesn’t know Phil at all.

Phil’s room is covered in posters, possessing some kind of teenage familiality and it’s making Dan feel a little weird because he’s realising how  _human_  Phil is. He’s only human, no different to anyone else; except he is. He’s so different and Dan’s finding it hard to wrap his head around.

Dan’s confused and Phil’s motioning for him to lay down on the bed, pointing to the arrangement of clumsily stuck on plastic stars that seem to cling to Phil’s ceiling. He complies silently, moving to settle beside Phil and the door is closed and the ceiling is white.

It’s white, just like any other ceiling except it’s covered in fucking plastic stars and Dan tastes something unfamiliar on his tongue.  He’s unfocused, disorientated, and his kingdom is laying silent, the ache of former bruises creating a film of purple which seems to reside behind his eyes.

Nothing makes sense.

Phil tells him, quietly, almost thoughtfully;

“Did you know that the chemical formula for love is just dopamine, serotonin and oxytocin? It can be manufactured in a lab easily, but overdosing on any chemical can cause schizophrenia, insanity and extreme paranoia.”

“I didn’t know that.” Dan says, because he didn’t, and because he’s afraid to say anything else since his heart is in his fucking stomach again and the web inside his mind is just a misshapen entanglement of apprehension. He’s losing it.

Phil hums. “Interesting, isn’t it. How something so perfect in the eyes of billions can be convoluted and twisted into something no one wants to touch with a ten foot pole. But i think- if it’s balanced just right, it can be the most beautiful thing.”

“Is it ever balanced just right?”

Phil tilts his head sideways, staring up at the ceiling from a different angle. “Probably not. Maybe on occasion. I’d like to think it is sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Dan mumbles, brows furrowing at the slight headache setting in between his temples; “But knowing me I’d end up with the insanity.”

Phil breathes out a laugh, almost silent but strong enough for a smile to break through the mess of exhaustion Dan holds. And he’s thankful for it, he really is.

-

Dan can kind of feel himself building up to something, and he’s pretty sure the bubbling in his stomach isn’t a good thing. It’s mostly because he’s losing control of himself and letting his emotions take over- a mistake he promised himself last time he wouldn’t make again but here he is and here Phil is, getting under his skin to the point where he can’t breathe. And so he decides he’s going to tell Phil this, because if he doesn’t he’s going to end up in a fucking mess.

“You can’t do this.” Dan says a couple of nights later, when Phil’s lying on his bedroom floor with his hands in the air, tracing circles on Dan’s ceiling. He sits up, slowly.

“Do what?”

“Act like you know me in any way, like you can see into my fucking mind, because you really can’t, Phil. You’re not the only one who’s tried. Never works.”

“I don’t know you at all. I only know what you want me to know. That’s not my problem.”

“Then whose is it?” Dan fires back, and he’s feeling this surge of uncontrollable venom in his veins, and it’s burning his throat, stinging the backs of his eyelids, and he doesn’t like it.

“Yours, of course. It’s not my fault you never let anyone past the surface.” Phil’s too calm, hands placed together in his lap as he watches Dan begin to pace the room. It’s irritating Dan too much that Phil’s not shouting at him, not lacing his words with daggers.

“Because that would do no one any good! Do you not  _see_  why I never open up? Because what’s underneath would just fucking burn you to pieces. I’m not a good person, I’m terrible, I’m  _insane_ -”

“You’re not insane.”

“Stand the fuck up.” Dan hisses, because he’s about to slap Phil in the face if he keeps being so horrifically calm. Phil stands up, slowly, with his arms by his sides.

“What do you want me to do, Dan?” Phil asks, and he’s so fucking composed it’s making Dan’s hands shake.

“Shout. Hit me, or something. Don’t just fucking stand there and take it, yell at me or anything just please-”

“I can’t do that.” Phil’s looking a little less put together now, hands fumbling, and he’s staring at Dan with his head tilted slightly. It’s too much.

“Why the fuck are you still here, anyway? Haven’t you figured it out yet? I’m too intense, Phil. I  _ruin_  people. Every person I come into contact with, have a relationship with, ends up damaged and bruised and limp because I twist them and squeeze them and torment them until there’s nothing left. All I want is power and importance and to be treated like I fucking deserve and I can’t do that while you’re around, so I’ll ruin you, quietly at first, as much so as you don’t really notice, and then I twist a little harder and you start to feel it and your lungs are closing up a little now, much to your concern, and finally there’s a snap and it’s because you crossed the fucking line, Phil, and you’re broken and it’s my fucking fault. And for once, I don’t want that to happen to you. Because you are a good person, you’re too good for anyone, yeah? So you need to get out of this before it gets too much.”

Phil stares at him, mouth open in shock. It’s almost dark. His features seem to stand out despite the overwhelming tenebrosity surrounding them.

“I don’t care.”

“What?”

Phil steps forward, eyes dark. “I said I  _don’t care_ -”

“I don’t want to hurt you, do you not understand that? Because you’ve hurt me enough already and I can’t risk anything else.”

“You’re not going to hurt me.” His words are more forceful now, composure dropping from his features like a mask and Dan feels a sick sense of victory; one which jaggedly compliments the overwhelming exasperation that seems to pool in his chest.

“I am, Phil, I’m doing it now, I can see it in your expression- you fucking-”

Phil’s somehow getting closer to him and Dan’s not coping well with that. So he tells the truth. Always a colossal mistake.

“Every time you open your mouth you’re ripping me apart, piece by piece, do you get that? You’re ruining everything I built up for myself and your words are getting into my mind and they’re not leaving. I can’t- I’m not fucking okay with that.”

Phil steps forward and he’s looking almost desperate, eyes raking over Dan’s silhouette.

“Fuck. Can I kiss you?”

“No.”

“Can I just-”

“No.”

“I might love you a little bit-”

“Don’t say that.”

“I’m just saying what needs to be said-”

Dan kisses him.

It’s rough and long and he can feel Phil’s body relaxing into his own, and it scares him to death.

-

They fuck a week later; and that’s all it is, that’s all it was ever supposed to be.

Apathetic.

Except both of them know it’s far from detached, because Dan’s whining into every kiss and he’s so desperate for something but he doesn’t know what that something is. He’s lingering on every touch, leaning into Phil to the point where he can’t differentiate what he wants and what he needs. Dan kind of thinks they’re the same thing at this point, because nothing has made sense in so long.

Startlingly, the realisation comes that he hasn’t spent time inside his mind for quite a while. It’s the kind of realisation that kicks him in the stomach a little, one which almost drives him insane with the further recognition that it’s because of Phil, again. Phil’s in his mind and nothing else fucking matters, because he’s comparable to a virus in the sense that Dan’s blind to anything else. And he’s crazy for even thinking Phil’s a fucking virus because he’s counter actively the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

Phil is a bad person in some ways, for how he manipulates and cons and cheats other people into thinking he’s something to be idolized. But Dan can look past everything Phil displays on the surface because it’s all just a mask, all for show. Dan knows more than anyone that underneath is someone to be admired, simply for existing. He’s more than gone, and he knows it, yet defeat isn’t the right word. He’s not ashamed to love Phil; a thought which stings the back of his eyelids with truth, with vulnerability.

He feels an itching need to get it off his chest, for the way it scratches at his throat, tears his heart open in agitation.

“Phil,” he breathes, and he’s bumping their foreheads together, hands clasping Phil’s clumsily as the older stops his movements, stares down at Dan in confusion because Dan’s always quiet when it comes to this and tonight he’s not and Dan can tell Phil’s been wanting to know why all night. Phil stills, unlatching a hand from Dan’s grip to brush his hair away from his eyes.

“Yeah?”

“I just- you’re everything I’ve ever wanted and now that I’ve got you I don’t- I need you. I really fucking need you, Phil.”

Phil seems to consider this for a while, expression unreadable in the dark of the room they managed to acquire at this goddamn stupid house party and it’s silent except for the thump of music below them and Dan’s ragged breathing. Dan wishes that for once he could fucking control his emotions, or something. He’s lost connection with what the definition of ‘control’ even is.

“You don’t need me.” Phil replies, quiet yet firm enough for Dan’s heart to sink a little. He leans down again to connect their lips, and Dan’s mind is fuzzy with yearning and he’s losing himself again, sinking. He doesn’t give a shit.

“You’re too good for me.”

Dan waits for Phil’s reaction after pulling away a second time, punctuating his words with butterfly kisses to Phil’s neck. He thinks with a sort of bitterness that no truer words have ever left his lips. But Phil seems to disagree, shaking his head, resting it on Dan’s forehead in defiance and his eyes are closed and all Dan can feel is staggered breath on his cheeks.

He sighs, kisses the side of Phil’s mouth. It’s only a few moments later before the kisses become heated again and Phil’s hands are everywhere, drowning Dan for all he’s worth.

-

Phil’s threading his hands through Dan’s hair in the empty time afterwards, sighing into his neck in contentment and all Dan can think about is how one day, Dan’s going to be too much for Phil. Until that day, though, and until Phil figures out that Dan’s version of loving is warped way out of fucking proportion, he’s almost happy to lay back and allow Phil to fall. He’s selfish, selfish and manipulative and unreliable to an extreme but a king cannot be a king without significant self worth, without a crown to place upon his head. And the problem is, the  _problem_ is that Dan’s crown happens to be laced with the instability of doubt; a contradiction which messes up everything he’s ever come to know.

He’s not tired enough to fall asleep, and his kingdom is as much of an empty shell as it ever will be, so he tilts his head slightly to press a kiss to Phil’s cheek.

“Can you talk to me?”

Phil’s rubbing circles into his hips, eyes closed. “Why?”

“I just wanted to hear your voice.”

_Because Dan’s mind is like a torn page, jagged and ripped and damaged and yet he can still make out the words etched into it. The ones that say: ‘you’re in love with him’, ones that whisper ‘the hounds can attack you now, they can fucking tear you apart and all you’ll be left with is the promise of a bruised megalomania.’._

Phil tells him about his fascination with untranslatable words such as ‘ _waldeinsamkeit_ ’, which is German for ‘the feeling of being alone in the woods’, and Dan drinks in every word like it’s his last.

-

Dan can’t cope with Phil being who he is

And it’s not as simple as just cutting Phil out of his life; it’s way too late for that and Dan couldn’t cut the string if he tried, so he has to deal with the days of being ignored, hated, and the nights where Phil’s telling him he means the fucking world. It’s complicated, to put it simply, except it wouldn’t be if Dan had a stable grip on his crown from the start, instead of letting it clatter to the ground at Phil’s feet. It  _wouldn’t_  be if he’d lived up to at least one of his paradigms, if he’d just kept to wanting power and control and the world in his hands as opposed to wanting Phil to love him.

So they argue, shoot words at each other in the form of paper arrows, yet Dan’s arrows are blunt and they fall from Phil with nothing but a whisper. He fucking loves Phil for all he’s worth. He’s terrified Phil doesn’t reciprocate.

Phil kisses him like he means it, though, hands crushing the sides of Dan’s face, stumbling forwards towards the wall because it’s dark and they’re desperate and angry and nothing else is working. And Dan kisses back in equal measure, only to pull back and yell at Phil again in harsh whispers, to see if he can push Phil a little further, just a little, and receive the reaction he needs.

“I fucking hate you.” Phil’s breathing into Dan’s lips and his hands are tugging at the strands of Dan’s hair and he looks so close to just losing it, letting everything he’s repressed for so long out. Dan enjoys it more than he should.

“I love you too.” Dan murmurs in reply.

His crown is shattered in a million pieces at his feet; his kingdom a mess of broken glass sticking out of the ground, and, with every step into his thoughts, he feels a sharp pain from where it’s caught him.

-

Confusion has become an emotion rather than a feeling to Dan lately, in the sense that he feels it on every level, and it never fucking leaves. Because he’s still the same as he used to be; he still has a superiority complex to be proud of, walks the halls in the knowledge that every step he takes intimidates every person in his circumference. It’s just that now, Dan’s in love, and that really screws things up.

It’s too powerful, and it gives him a reason to allow vulnerability to seep into his veins, destroy his mind from the inside out. Dan can’t deal with that, because he needs control and authority and he needs stability instead of jagged edges, and that’s not happening. What’s happening is that Phil’s getting into Dan’s mind. He’s not exactly moving, or saying anything to open up wounds- and that’s the thing, Phil’s existence is enough for it to sting like absolute hell and Dan’s not sure what to think, anymore.

Dan’s mind, his kingdom, his web; it’s something he needs, something he feeds off in order to properly function, and without it he’s lost. And so with Phil being who he is he’s walking in circles, trying to find something that doesn’t exist. Dan can’t hold his chin high when Phil’s forcing knives into his chest with a slow ease, a concentrated composure which seems endless. He’s disorientated, caught in his web except his web isn’t a fucking existence anymore, is it, it’s just a tangle of nihility which he still hasn’t let go of. He’s lost.

And he really, honestly hates Phil for doing this to him, for weakening him. He knows also that Phil’s made him stronger in other ways but he’ll do his best to stay blind if it means he can pile all of his complications on Phil. Dan’s fucking selfish. He’s selfish and so in love it feels like the opposite.

Phil tells him he’s fucked up one night when they’re both lying on the floor of Phil’s bedroom, staring up at plastic stars which seem to leer at him, and he agrees. Not without telling Phil the same, though, to which Phil laughs, smiling one of his knowing smiles before reaching out for Dan’s hand in the dark. Phil promises Dan that being a megalomaniac is an illness, and Dan returns the promise with the simple fact that heartache is a worthy competitor.

-

Dan only has the patience to whisper the thought on his immediate conscience.

“It’s never going to end right.”

“I know.”

 

                ★                                   ★                                  ★

 

_Phil POV_

 

The thing that really irritates Phil is that he doesn’t know how Dan works.

It’s a trivial thing to be bothered about, but in his defence, knowing Dan is similar to talking through a brick wall; when he finally begins to knock it down, Dan’s already building another one, stronger than the first.

Dan’s impossible.

They won’t last, because although Phil’s managed to create something unlikely, Dan’s too messed up to keep things stable. He’s right about everything, and Phil’s wrong, and he hates it. Dan’s beautiful and he’s challenging and he keeps Phil’s mind thinking constantly about illogical things and it’s all a ticking time bomb and it’s never going to last.

What surprises him is that he’s become sort of numb to it all. And at the same time, strangely enough, whenever he looks at Dan he’s being stabbed in the chest perpetually, tiny knives puncturing his heart only to find that there’s nothing inside. He’s empty; sort of transparent. It might be Dan’s influence. He doesn’t really care.

In the end, Dan will let Phil go, and Phil won’t leave, so he’ll wait until there’s nothing left for Phil to hold onto.

In the end, reality will come crashing down on them both, and the price of existence will be paid.

_tu es mon chéri de sang et des larmes_

_tu es mon chéri de l'amour et de clarté_

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on tumblr.
> 
> July 2017: I have realised since writing this fic in 2015 that my portrayal of megalomania and mental disorders in this fic are pretty shoddy and not properly researched, so i apologise for any inaccuracies throughout the fic! I am keeping the fic up for sentimental reasons (mostly to look back and see where I went wrong!) but please feel free to comment if you have any thoughts. Thank you!


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